The Bay State Monthly, Volume 3, No. 1 eBook

CHAPTER XIV.

THE HOSTESS.

The second morning of the visit was delightful.
Madam Archdale had taken Lady Dacre to the cupola,
and the view that met their eyes would have more admiration
from people more travelled than these. On the
east was the sea, looking in the early sunshine like
a great flashing crescent of silver laid with both
its arcs upon the earth. Down to it wandered the
creek winding by the grounds beneath the watchers,
turned out of its straight course, now to lave the
foot of some large tree that in return spread a circle
of shade to cool its waters before they passed out
under the hot sun again; now to creep through some
field, perhaps of daises, to send its freshness through
all their roots and renew their courage in the contest
with the farmers, so that the more they were cut down,
the more they flourished, for the sun, and the stream,
the summer air, and the soil, all were upon their
side. Shadows fell upon the water from the bridge
across the road over which the lumbering carts went
sometimes, and the heavy carriages still more seldom.
On the other hand, looking up the stream, were the
hills from among which this little river slipped out
rippling along with its musical undertone, as if they
had sent it as a messenger to express their delight
in summer. In the distance the Piscataqua broadened
out to the sea, and beyond the river the city was
outlined against the sky. To the left of this,
and in great sweeps along the horizon stretched the
forests. As one looked at these forests, the
fields of com, the scattered houses, the pastures dotted
with cattle, the city, all signs of civilization,
seemed like a forlorn hope sent against these dense
barriers of nature; yet it was that forlorn hope that
is destined always to win.

“Do you know, I like it?” said Lady Dacre
turning to her hostess. “I think it all
very nice. So does Sir Temple. Yet I don’t
see how you can get along without a bit of London,
sometimes. London is the spice, you know, the
flavor of the cake, the bouquet of the wine.”

“Only, it differs from these, since one cannot
get too much of it,” answered Madam Archdale
smiling, thinking as her eyes swept over the landscape
that there were charms in her own land which it would
be hard to lose.

Lady Dacre settled herself comfortably in one of the
chairs of the cupola, and turning to her companion,
said abruptly:

“Dear Madam Archdale, what is going to be done
about that poor son of yours; he is in a terrible
situation?”

“Indeed, he is.”

“When is he going to get out? Have you
done anything about it?”

“Done anything? Everything, rather.
To say nothing of Stephen and my poor little niece.
Elizabeth Royal is not a woman to sit down calmly
under the imputation of having married a man against
his will. And, besides, I have heard that she
would like to marry one of her suitors.”